


The Clean Truth

by islasands



Series: The Diary of an Incomplete Bastard [2]
Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 08:41:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/islasands/pseuds/islasands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it is impossible to reconcile differences, but only because of a failure to accurately identify them. We are far more simply cut than we like to believe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Clean Truth

He stood at the window and looked out at the view. The thing about views, he thought, is that after a while you stop looking at them. 

And he promptly stopping looking. He remained at the window staring out at the evening sky, arms across his chest and his feet set firmly apart, his mouth pursed by the intensity of his feeling, his countenance like the sky similarly darkening. For in his mind's eye he was elsewhere, looking at a man who most likely wasn't pleased to see him, saying things to that man which he most likely didn't want to hear. I can't lie to him, he thought. He's as particular about the truth as he is about being clean, - and there's the contradiction of him, right there, truth and cleanliness sharing the same bed of definition, when that's crazy, it doesn't work like that. It doesn't add up, any more than covering a city with sequins of electric lights makes the night go away.

Because the truth about truth is that it sweats and defecates. It pisses behind a tree. It rolls over and lets its semen dry on the sheets. It has bad breath yet still expects to kiss. It cuts its toenails so it can sniff at the parings. It's dirty and squalid and teems with bacteria. It rolls in the sensual mud of life and that's how you recognise it. Just when you think you're sorted. Just when you think you have something good to offer, just when you’ve tossed a fresh green salad of your soul on a plate and you're ready to make a confession of love, a confession that feels exactly like that, an admission of guilt, you take one last look over your shoulder and discover the truth is there, smiling at you while it runs a speculative finger over its lips, its hand splayed over its genitals, its smell as putrid as the water in a vase of dead flowers, and you forget what you were saying because out of nowhere all you want to do is fuck. Not love. Not share. Not give. Just fuck. 

These thoughts made him turn away from the window and cast himself on a couch. What was he trying to tell himself? That love is dishonest? Love is the lie? 

Well maybe it is. Maybe love is humanity's soap. Maybe what really separates us from animals is not consciousness or speech but heavy duty disinfectant? And none of this is helping. If I tell him I love him, he'll want to turn away. His eyes will fill up with the accusation, "If you loved me, you wouldn't have...". And I'll stare at his face, his hair, his neck, his clothes, his hands, knowing how meticulously washed and scrubbed and shaved and trimmed he is, and feel sick with wanting to get inside him, to dig around in his dirt, rummage around in the parts of him that he can't reach with his electric toothbrush, his body wash, and his exfuckingfoliator. I'll want to suck his truth out of him and force him to taste it on my tongue. I'll want him to stare at my face, grimacing, while I make his anus feel like a pool of gulping mud. And when I'm done, when I'm cock deep in the truth belying his civility, his precious moral codes, his treasured faculties of loyalty and fidelity, that's when I'll love him. That's when I'll love him in truth and cleanly. That's when I'll want him to want me more than he wants any other. That's when he'll be mine whether he likes it or not, when my stake has been driven in the ground of him and he says my name because he can't think of anything else to say.

His thoughts came to the same climax as the one that occurred in his hand. He would go to him but not with his heart in his hand. Not in a bid for forgiveness, not to win him over with promises or guarantees. He needs me, he thought. He doesn't like it, but it's how it is. And I need him. If he wants monogamy, I can deliver, but not for the reasons he imagines are prerequisite. Fidelity is nothing but a cake of soap, a lotion, an astringent to close the pores of the truth. Not just mine but his. No, the reason I can do it is because I miss him and the reason I miss him is because he became a view I stopped looking at. A view that I had wanted my whole life, like wanting to one day own real estate on a cliff. And why? Why did I stop? 

Because I'm a poor player at the game of domesticity, and because absence doesn't make my heart fonder, and because I'm a needy fuck and he likes that about me, but only when I exclusively need him. And he wants my neediness because he likes giving it a good wash. A long cycle, set for delicates, after which he can lay me flat to dry. Preferably in the shade. 

He pulled up the zipper on his pants and stood up. As he brushed his hair back from his forehead he caught the smell of semen on his hand. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, he thought, as he slammed the door behind him. 

 

_To be continued._


End file.
